Battle Wounds
by elphabaanne
Summary: "Bleeding was easy. She was used to bleeding." Mandy catches Kat biting herself in the locker room, and Kat is surprised by her reaction.


Her earliest memory is of blood.

She is three years old, and it is her first ice skating lesson. Her coach tells her mother she's a natural—has that raw artistic flair they can mold into true elegance. Her mom is so happy that when Kat yanks off her skate and peels back her sock, soaked with blood from a fresh heel blister, she promises to take her to the drug store to pick out a box of special band-aids.

They don't have much money, but she deserves the special treat, her mom says, for earning her first badge of honor. Her first battle wound.

Bleeding was easy. She was used to bleeding.

So when she chickens out on her triple (again) and Justin throws his hands up in annoyance (again) and Dasha tries to be encouraging but does that thing she thinks nobody notices where she clenches her jaw in frustration (again), she tells them she just needs five minutes to get it under control.

Her skates stamp the black mat beneath her as she stomps, pools of melted ice quaking off the blades and leaving a trail of droplets behind her. She thanks whatever higher power might be (but probably isn't) out there that it's a closed session and she has the locker room to herself.

The minute the door closes, she rips down her sleeve, clenching her teeth around her forearm to choke the screams threatening to escape her throat.

She likens herself to a doctor at first. An anesthesiologist injecting a shot to numb the pain. "You're just going to feel a slight pinch" and then nothing. The needle is the medicine.

But then she looks in the mirror—which is always a mistake—and sees a junkie dying for a fix, scratching and scratching her weak, shaking body until she breaks the skin, gets a hit.

But she's worse than a junkie, isn't she? She's a vampire. A cannibal. A parasite feeding off herself.

And she suddenly has to scrape the faintly metallic flavor from her tongue, wipe the evidence from her shoulder, grab a paper towel and sloppily wet it so she can erase, erase, erase. Sure, the punctures might remain and the scars might still be there, but she can stop the blood. She can always control the blood.

"Kat?"

She turns around so quickly she nearly loses balance—something she hasn't done off the ice since she was a toddler. "Like baby deers," Dasha had said at the showcase upon seeing the group of young beginners ungracefully parading onto the ice.

She thinks it's her mom at first. It wouldn't be the first time she bombarded her in the locker room, ripped into her for jumping too low or spinning too slow or—when she was off her meds—doing nothing at all.

But then her eyes adjust, the tears clearing her eyes to drip down onto her cheeks, and she realizes the hair is a touch too white, the voice a touch too high.

She locks eyes with Mandy, and she is paralyzed.

She's always been careful enough not to get caught. Don't get her wrong, there were close calls—that night Serena wandered into her room in the middle of the night, scared of a thunderstorm; when her mom came home from work early—but nobody had actually ever seen her do it, ever witnessed her in her vulnerable state.

She figures this can go one of two ways: Mandy can turn on her stiletto and run out of her life forever, too embarrassed and ashamed of her to ever look at her again, quietly suggest that perhaps Justin see if Leah is still available. Or she can melt into a ball of pity, pepper her with a million sad, sad questions, all the while collecting information so she can go out and tell the whole world that the Baker girl is even more unhinged than everyone thought.

Kat is surprised, however, when Mandy does neither. She simply walks over to her, grabbing her injured arm with a soft yet firm grip and leading her to a bench.

"We better get that cleaned up. Wouldn't want an infection on our hands," she says in a voice that somehow manages to be both commanding and compassionate.

Kat's brain tells her to argue. It tells her to rip her arm from her grasp and freeze Mandy out for daring to penetrate this safe, horrible bubble she calls her life.

But Kat's brain is sick. And more than that, it's tired. And so for once—just this once—she lets her heart do the thinking.

Because the truth is, she likes it when Mandy pulls out a full-blown first aid kit from her purse and calls herself Texas Mary Poppins, M.D. And she likes the way she warns her that the hydrogen peroxide might sting before she gently pats the cold cloth on her skin. And she likes the way Mandy tucks a stray hair that has fallen from Kat's braid behind her ear once she's done, telling her that she can call her any time—seriously, any time—if she ever needs someone to talk to. And when she says it, her smile is so maternal, so full of warmth that it makes Kat's chest ache, makes Kat almost believe her.

But Kat's brain is a force—an unstoppable natural disaster that comes whenever it pleases.

"Sorry," it makes Kat say. "I know this is...disgusting."

"Please," Mandy scoffs. "Don't insult me. My grandparents owned a farm. Used to make me help birth the cows. I may look like Malibu Barbie, but I've seen more than my fair share of blood." She snaps the first aid kit shut, lifting herself from her kneeled position. "And I have to say, you smell a heck of a lot better than the calves."

"No, I know," Kat replies, halfway ignoring her. When her brain gets like this, she has to get it out—all out—let it run its course before it's satisfied. Before it's done trying to destroy. "This," she says, gesturing to her now gauze-covered arm, "it's just...something I do. I know it's...dumb and gross and pathetic, but-"

"No," Mandy stops her, "you don't have to explain." She hooks her purse over her shoulder as casually as if she were getting out of a booth at a restaurant. The way she treats Kat like a human—not like a monster nor a broken vase—is what strikes her most.

"And it's not, and _you're_ not, any of those things," Mandy continues. "It's a battle wound."

Kat brushes it off then. But later that night—when she can't stop thinking about the confident way Mandy said it, like she somehow _knew _exactly what Kat was going through—she thinks maybe she's right after all.

Maybe it is a battle wound. And she might be the weapon, but maybe she's the warrior, too.

And maybe, just maybe, there's a chance she can even win the war.


End file.
